


Darling, your love is hacking me to bits

by Baryshnikov



Series: Crossing the red-stained veil [13]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Dark Harry Potter, Injury, Love, Love/Hate, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Violent Fantasies, what is love?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25609858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom has taken too long to admit what he wants, so Harry takes matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Crossing the red-stained veil [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1520894
Comments: 4
Kudos: 111





	Darling, your love is hacking me to bits

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies, this is all kinds of awful, so feel free to hate it.

Love was a creature whose face took many forms; it was what made it so insidious—so inescapable. 

Right now it took the form of blood. Thick, viscous, blood that dribbled down Harry's hand like roots, sliding into the indents of his skin and pooling in his upturned palm. He'd cut his hand right open during potions and now Tom couldn't stop staring. 

Harry was supposed to go to the infirmary, and Tom was supposed to be accompanying him, but Harry had grabbed his wrist and pulled him in here—the first floor bathroom—instead. He'd shut the door before Tom could really protest, not that he wanted to, because he was in here with Harry— _Harry Potter_ —who was looking at him with those heavy, determined, eyes that made Tom's insides wring themselves out. 

"Why did you do that?" Tom said, trying to keep the edge in his tone, even as he was grasping at the fraying edges of decency like that could save him from the horrible things he wanted. Things like digging his fingers into Harry's palm, his nails shoved as deep as they would go inside the wound until Harry couldn't keep his mouth shut. Until he was wincing, whining, wailing from the pain of having Tom's fingers inside him. 

Tom swallowed. 

Harry's hand was still bleeding, the palm overflowing and spilling over the edge in thin red streams that made Tom clench his jaw and look away, focusing instead on the whiteness of the tiles between the sinks and the slow dripping of the tap; it sounded like his pulse biting at his neck, threatening to eat him alive with every throb. 

And wasn't love just such an inadequate description for how this all felt?

Four measly letters could never convey what it was to feel this way. It couldn't describe how it was to be torn apart—to be ripped limb from limb—by a creature so desperate and compulsive that you craved it. Four letters couldn't hope to show how it was to have yourself spread for the universe your blood vessels strung out like a web, stretched so infinetly far and in the space between, your heart still beating, pumping, pounding you to death with every stroke. 

Harry interrupted that thought. He was still looking at Tom, though he flexed his fingers and the blood oozed thicker.  
"Because it's long overdue," he said between the steady sounds of spots of blood hitting the floor and Tom's pulse beating itself to death against his skin. 

"What do you mean, _it's overdue_?" Tom said, as he moved to stand between the furthest sink and the door, still trying to calm his breathing to something reasonable. 

Harry stepped closer, "I mean, I've seen the way you look at me," he said, "and I've seen the way you look at this." He paused to squeeze his hand shut and when he opened it again blood was slicked across his entire palm and up the length of his fingers. In the light that poured through the windows, the wound was red and angry and the blood, like a venomous snake, slithered down Harry's skin. 

Without meaning to, Tom felt himself tense up. His muscles aching as he pressed back into the wall and fought the urge to grip the sink until his knuckles turned white. He couldn't deny how much he wanted to touch Harry and his bloody hand. To feel the warm insides of someone else spread all over his shirt and his skin and his tongue; as monstrous as it was, he wanted to make Harry bleed, make him hurt like no one else could. 

Because you could never understand what it was to love until you understood what it was to hurt. 

Tom knew what it was to hurt. For every moment of love was agony and he had been living with it for so long now; always ignoring it. Always hoping that it would pass and his stomach would stop rolling every time he so much as saw Harry smiling in his direction. 

So he understood the nebulous, indefinable, monstrosity that was love. He knew what it meant to drown—constantly—in the air that Harry breathed, and he knew what it was like to stare at his hands and wonder what it was in his skeleton that made them shake like that whenever Harry brushed against him. 

Simply Tom knew that love and pain were flowers cut from the same stalk. And to live you had to allow yourself to be opened up to the dark eyes of the world, to have your skin peeled back and your insides clawed out by greedy hands, and that hurt. 

It hurt so fucking much. 

"I mean look at you," Harry said, stepping closer, so much closer, that he could reach up and press his hand against Tom's face, smearing his skin with soft smudges of red and brown blood, "you're a mess." 

The way he said it was scarcely above a whisper, as though it was something sacred—something beautiful—to be so messed up by love that you couldn't even think straight.  
"And it's the blood, isn't it?" Harry continued, murmuring quieter now, his eyes sparking with something as horrible as it was lovely. Something that made Tom's heart shiver and his hands curl themselves into fists. 

There was an understanding in those eyes—an appreciation—that something about Tom was wired wrong but that Harry might just have the same flaw.  
"It gets under your skin, doesn't it?" Harry continued, shifting his fingers to rest on Tom's lips, the pad of his thumb pushing into his teeth, surely staining them red too.  
"I get under your skin too, don't I?" he murmured,  
"I make you hurt—do you hate me for it?" 

Tom shook his head. He couldn't hate Harry, no matter how much he wanted to for how he made him feel—for _what_ he made him feel. For love was horrible. It was an itching in the back of your skull and a chemical burn in your esophagus. It was being knocked off your feet and smashed against the floor by some higher being that was amused by your suffering. It was being torn to ribbons, shredded like paper in careless hands. 

Harry's thumb pressed deeper, pushing it into Tom's mouth and hooking it over his teeth, so that he could taste the coating of coagulating blood. It tasted good. Too good. And Tom couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to get Harry on his back and cut him open and stick his tongue in him. To feel Harry pulsing around him, to swallow his blood, and taste the iron as it stuck in his throat. 

"How much does it hurt?" Harry said, pulling his thumb, now slicked with saliva, out of Tom's mouth and sliding it down his chin, leaving a trail of wetness behind and instead stepping still closer so that his breathing prickled against Tom's lips. 

"So much," he heard himself say; all weak and pathetic it reverberated around the bathroom, sinking into the walls and resting on the edge of the sinks to haunt him forever. 

"Oh, Tommy," Harry murmured, his bloody hand now sliding down Tom's throat and over the collar of his shirt, staining the white with fingerprints the colour of red clay. "Do you want it to stop?" he said, his hand tracking lower like a red river running to the buckle of Tom's belt. "Do you want _me_ to make it stop?" 

Tom had scarcely nodded before Harry was getting to his knees, both his hands working at Tom's belt and his eyes shining with the same sickness that Tom knew was pressed deep inside his pupils. 

Harry still had that look when he was cupping Tom's cock, already hard and already heavy and already dribbling, in his red, oozing, hand and thumbing at the head. 

And he was still wearing that look when he put it in his mouth and sucked like it was something divine. 

Tom pressed his back into the wall, his shirt, untucked and sliding over the tiles and catching on the crisscross of grout; it dug into his skin and chafed him down to the bone. He exhaled—gasped, really—the sound scraping harsh over his throat as his hands scrabbled for Harry's hair, grabbing and pulling at the curls just to hold on to something that felt real.

Even as his heart beat quicker, banging on his ribs and threatening to splinter him. To split him apart like an atom, eating him from the inside out because love was such a hungry creature. 

"Harry," he groaned, "Harry, _please_." Though whether he was pleading to be split apart or threaded back together, he could scarcely tell. All that mattered was the aching in the base of his spine and the clenching of muscles inside him, opening and closing like the gaping cavity of love's insatiable mouth.

Harry pulled back enough to look Tom in the eye, and though his hair was such a mess and skin was bitten red by wanting, there was something slinking and obvious lining Harry's mouth and filling up his pupils with an admiration—an _adoration_ even—for the power this was giving him.

Because that was the cruel nature of the thing that called itself love. It gave and it took. Gifting some people the power they craved over others—a subjugation of sorts—whilst reducing others to some sad, suffocated, state. Harry only had to take Tom's cock back in his mouth and grind him down with those tight little licks around the crown for Tom to go weak at the knees and know exactly what love did to him.

Harry continued to hold him steady, one hand pressed hard against his hip and the other wrapped around the base of his length, squeezing just hard enough to make Tom choke on his own saliva. The world fuzzing out around him and the silence throbbing to the sound of his heart—eating its way out of the pit of his stomach.

But the only thing that mattered was the roughness of Harry's hands, and the heat of his mouth, and just Harry, Harry, Harry.

And the way he was so carefully taking him apart, stripping him down to the dirt that made his bones.  
"Doesn't that feel good, Tommy?" Harry murmured between the broard, flat, strokes of his tongue that had Tom knocking his head against the tiles and shifting his hips in frustration, or maybe, it was desperation.  
"Doesn't that feel better?" 

Tom couldn't say. 

It still hurt; in his limbs and his pulse and his stomach there was a ferious, ravening, ache that made him dizzy—one hand still knotted into Harry's hair and the other now gripping the edge of the sink. And he still wanted to tilt Harry's head up and look him in the eye as he forced his fingers down his throat, scraping them as deep as he could go just to know how soft and squishy and covered in blood Harry was on the inside. 

But that was love wasn't it? Wanting to tear someone apart and lick up whatever was left until it coated your mouth in a sheen of red. Wanting to be torn apart yourself and strung back together over and over again until you finally understood what was _wrong_ with you. 

That was the essense of love in all its horrible forms.


End file.
